


The Boy On The Step

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Series: Be Near Me [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Anthea, Big Brother Mycroft, Family Issues, Gen, Mrs. Hudson Knew He Was Trouble, Prequel, Sherlock-centric, Warning: Sherlock, Younger Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 years. 8 characters. 1 Sherlock. </p><p>This is the story of how the boy on Mrs. Hudson's step became the detective in John Watson's adventures, told by the people who were there. General fic story, no shipping I'm afraid. </p><p>Takes place in the same universe as "Be Near Me When My Light Is Low," but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy On The Step

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Technically speaking, this is a prequel to "Be Near Me When My Light Is Low," because it's set in the same universe, but it can be read as a standalone. Rated hard T for some swearing. And as always, feedback is appreciated: Enjoy!

**THE BOY ON THE STEP**

_Baker Street, London_

_September 15th, 2000_

He's a bit skinny and a bit cheeky, and he's so tall she feels like a garden gnome when she stands next to him.

But he doesn't smell of ganje and he's never tried to steal her handbag- which is more than she can say for most of the would-be wide boys she's encountered- and for that reason Marie Hudson doesn't object to the boy she keeps finding sitting on her step.

Tall as an ash tree, he is. Thin as a rail. Black curls, shaggy and unruly and long, worn past his collar with that sense of coltish confidence that only teenagers can really get away with. His hands and feet seem enormous, puppyish, too big for the thin body they're attached to. Eyes slanted, exotic, watching her carefully as he rolls himself a cigarette. Watching everyone else when he thinks that she can't see. Marie knows why he's here, knows what he's up to. The entire street's talking about that troublemaker up in number 227, Caspian he calls himself, him and that posh girlfriend of his selling drugs right out of their front room on a respectable street like this.  _It's a scandal_. Taking deliveries at all hours, seeing people at all hours too. The soon-to-be stoned hanging around their door like bees around a hive, buzzing and insistent and threatening. She's tried to get the tenants' association to do something about it, has even thought of calling the police. But Caspian's been vocal about his family's level of influence- one of his uncles is an MP, apparently- and Marie really doesn't think she can handle the sort of trouble which making an unsuccessful report to the police will entail.

So most of the time she ignores what's going on on her doorstep and keeps her head down.

_She has more than enough troubles of her own to be getting on with, she tells herself; She doesn't need to start sticking her nose into other people's._

Marie thinks all this as she sees the boy stand now to let her in her front door, those exotic eyes fixed past her to Caspian's door, the expression intent. Unsatisfied. Though she's aware she shouldn't- even  _she_  knows it's not wise to stare at a drug dealer- she follows his gaze. Shifting one plastic bag of groceries from her left to her right in order to hunt for the keys even as she looks as unobtrusively as possible down the street at 227. And sure enough, she sees her friendly neighbourhood drug dealer loping towards her. Designer jeans that would cost more than a week's shopping hanging on his hips, his blond hair swinging around his shoulders in long, ochre-tipped dreads. He's carrying an expensive mobile phone in one hand, nattering animatedly into it, while in the other he carries a brown paper bag, the sort they give out in delis. He looks relaxed. Happy. Like he's having a good day today.

Marie supposes that he  _is_  having a good day, judging by the amount of people she's seen wandering in and oust of his house in the last 24 hours. He's probably having a  _great_ bloody day.

He slows as he gets to her place, smiles down at the boy on the step. "Sherlock, good to see you, man," he says, ignoring Marie completely though she's right beside him.

The boy- Sherlock- shoots him a tight smile, though Marie can't help but notice that it doesn't touch his eyes. "Nice of you to finally join us," he says, in a deep baritone which belongs to a thirty year old scotch drinker, not a university student. "Now how about you hand over my order and I'll get off this nice lady's step."

And Sherlock looks at Marie, a small, real smile warming his features. She might be fifty years old and married to boot, but even she has to admit… It's quite a smile.

As if the boy's speaking to her is the only thing that reminded him of her presence, Caspian turns and looks down at her.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he drawls, leaning over her.

His height makes it just a mite intimidating.

"I  _live_ here," Marie points out, putting her shopping down and crossing her arms. Glaring up at him.

Caspian gives a loud guffaw of laughter, the kind that tells you you're being laughed at, not with.

Her husband has a laugh like that, Marie remembers, and the thought sends a shiver threading down her spine.

"Look," the boy Sherlock says then, "This is her step, and this is a public street. Unless you want to be caught passing along-" he glances at her- "herbal remedies, then I suggest you give me what I paid for."

And he holds out one long, elegant hand in expectation, staring at Caspian.

The other young man stares back at him, trying to eyeball him, but after a moment hands the paper bag over.

"Just in from Jamaica," the young man says. "Best I've had in a while. It's strong, good quality, organic." He snorts. "Fuck, it's practically fair trade."

Marie feels annoyance welling within her. This is her house, and it was her mother's house before her. She won't have this sort of thing happening on her doorstep. She won't have people handing over… herbal remedies in front of her home. But when she opens her mouth to say something, Caspian cocks an eyebrow, his gaze turning colder. Posh boy or not, there's nastiness in this one: She can see it when he looks at her, just as she can see its absence in the boy who sits on her step.

Sherlock moves between them, placing himself in front of Caspian, his parcel moved behind his back. He stands up a little straighter, and though the other young man is bigger, something tells Marie that in a fight these two would be evenly matched. "Causing trouble on the street's not a good idea," he's saying, sotto voce. "Next time, just let me make the deal in your front room. We needn't do this in public, it's trouble none of us want."

The other young man snorts. "Holmes, my friend," he says, and Marie sees the boy Sherlock's shoulders stiffen at this salutation, "you know Portia won't have your skinny arse inside the house. She's never liked you- shagging her sister's boyfriend will do that, you know- and after Friday, you can bet she'll never let you darken our door again." He shakes his head. "Fuck, you're lucky I was able to sell you this: If she knew I was out here, she'd have my balls in a vice for a month."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, his expression one of deepest cynicism.

_It occurs to Marie that there's none so cynical as your average teenaged boy._

"Caspian, Caspian, Caspian." He clucks his tongue in long-suffering amusement. "Firstly: Portia having your balls in a vice is an ongoing domestic experience, not something to do with me. Secondly, the day you stop being willing to take my money is the day you'll marry that girlfriend of yours, accept that job in the bank that daddy's got lined up, and start parking your Jag up on Teddington Lock." Sherlock snorts in disgusted amusement. "In other words, it's at least the rest of your university career- and possibly some sort of post grad degree- away. So kindly stop shovelling bullshit in my general direction, and try to remember that we are standing on a public street with a member of that public-" he nods to Marie- "watching us. And that thus far she has been… surprisingly unannoying about this whole thing, which is something she might not keep up." He grins angelically.

"So in other words, cop the fuck on."

Caspian looks at Sherlock with a smug little smirk then. "Aw, you afwaid the nice lady's going to know what sort of naughtiness you've been up to?" he snickers.

"No, I'm  _afwaid_ the nice lady's going to call the police because you've threatened her on her own doorstep, and now I'm going to have to find another place to sit. Which will be tedious." And Sherlock sighs the sigh of a martyr and looks at Marie as if asking her to give him patience.

"Spare a thought for me," he tells her. "Everyone I know is like him or his girlfriend. And they all think I'm exactly the same as them which, frankly, I find a really bloody depressing thought. In fact, I think if I spend any more time with them then I'm going to end up on a rooftop with an AK47. Do you ever think that?"

An image flashes through Marie's mind, her husband with his hand raised, her husband dragging her by her arms through their building.

He's been in the States three years and she still has flashbacks, still wakes up in a panic, sometimes, thinking he's next to her in bed.

"I know what its like to crave a clear view and a big gun, yes, dear," she tells him primly.

She shoots Caspian her most unimpressed look.

"I can only imagine it's worse for you. You'll be surrounded by idiots for the next four years."

The boy Sherlock's eyes widen at her remark and then he lets out a bark of laughter. The sound of it is rough, joyous, like something that's kicked its way into existence and is bloody happy it did. After a split second Caspian joins in, but Marie can tell he doesn't know why he's doing it. He's just trying to show Sherlock that he's in on the joke perhaps, or that he's not unnerved at all by what the young man said.

But he moves away from Marie and he never comes to her step again with drugs, or brown paper bags, or anything else, though she sometimes sees Sherlock sitting there.

He holds open the door for her sometimes, or offers her a cigarette, and though she never takes one, the offer always makes her smile.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed. And if you did, why not review :-P Also, I am aware that Mrs. Hudson is more usually given the name Martha, but I've always loved the name Marie so... Shrugs. They're each about as canonical as the othe, actually. Hope you enjoyed and hobbits away, hey!


	2. The Dropout In The Penthouse

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

**THE DROPOUT IN THE PENTHOUSE**

_Canary Wharf, London_

_November 22_ _nd_ _, 2002_

There are times when Mycroft Holmes resents the things Mummy asks of him.

Times when all he wants to do are sit in the Ministry, playing with his puzzles. Hiding from the notion that today would have been his and Peter's fifth anniversary, hiding from the notion that he is not getting any younger and his former beau is probably right.  _He will spend his days-_ _ **all**_ _his days- alone._ He resents the time spent on Mummy, the visits out to the clinic. Resents the money her treatment is leaching from him, and the hope along with it. But the thing Mycroft resents the most is that, in one of her few, final, lucid moments Mireille Marie Holmes extracted a promise from him to always watch over his baby brother, to keep him safe for her.

Mycroft looks across the flat at said baby brother, asleep, drunk, in bed with an assortment of humanity which he hopes all at least had the common sense to break open a box of condoms before they decided to call down Babylon, and he wonders acidly whether Mummy Dearest ever had this scenario in mind when she asked him that.

But no answer is forthcoming, and he knows none will be. So Mycroft moves more fully into the room, pocketing the spare key he keeps for emergencies and looking over at his… charge. Sherlock looks sick, his skin white as snow, dark circles under his eyes. He appears emaciated, skinny, his long frame no longer towering but gaunt. The arm laying atop the covers veined and broken with track marks. As Mycroft watches he makes some noise, turning in on himself and grimacing in his sleep before flopping onto his back again. One of his companions- it appears to be female but under that smeared much makeup, who can tell?- cuddles into him, cooing, her hand disappearing underneath the blankets and making its way southwards. The covers shifting in a rhythmic pattern that Mycroft recognises, the realisation making him roll his eyes heavenward.

 _Well,_ he thinks.  _If that doesn't wake Sherlock, nothing will._

"My dear young lady," he says dryly though, making the girl jump. He is by no means a prude, but there are some things one simply does not watch being done to one's siblings. "Much as I appreciate your… generosity this early in the morning, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to desist." He nods to Sherlock. "I need to speak with the Infant Profligate, and I'm afraid I won't want an audience."

The girl frowns, pouts. Shakes her head to get her hair out of her eyes. She is very pretty, Mycroft thinks, if you like that sort of thing. Gamine face, wide brown eyes. She's tiny, bordering on elfin. "What the fuck is it to do with you?" she demands in a flat East End accent and Mycroft smiles.

_Ah, a local. Getting rid of her will be easy, at least._

_He's tempted to just hand her some tube fare but he doubts that will work._

Instead he makes a show of taking off his bowler, leaning his umbrella against Sherlock's bedside locker. The girl frowns uncertainly, unsure how to take his obvious nonchalance, and the elder Holmes' smile widens.

It is not a pleasant sight.

"Please don't be offended, my dear, but prey tell, are you a professional?" he asks her. He sees the girl's eyes narrow and she hisses at him, casting about for something to throw. She settles on a man's shoe- which Mycroft doesn't think belongs to Sherlock- hefting the object with a surprising amount of force and nearly hitting him.

It lands, with a dull, loud, thud on the carpet behind him and Mycroft must admit, he's slightly impressed.

"I'm not a slag," she snaps. "Me'n Kim'n Shazz were just out for the night and we ran into-"

Mycroft keeps his smile benign.  _He's heard this before_. "Ah yes: You just ran into the Boy Genius. The Gentleman Dropout. So you decided to let him take you back to his new flat, go through his drink and his drugs and make sure a good time was had by all to smooth your way into his good graces." He sighs at her outraged growl. "Don't worry, it's quite a common tale really. I understand women seem to find him quite attractive. Men too." He wrinkles his nose. "I don't see it myself."

And as if knowing that he's being discussed, Sherlock raises his head.

He looks blearily about the room, eyes narrowed. His expression that of someone who's most put out that the Almighty decided to invent daylight, let alone gravity, hangovers and loud noises.

On seeing Mycroft the stretches more fully, the covers slipping down to reveal that yes, he is entirely naked. The girl makes some small noise at his movement and he looks at her. Frowns, takes both his hands out from beneath the covers.

"I was wondering who was holding onto my cock," he says conversationally. "You've got a lovely grip, darling."

She grins, leans in. Makes a show of kissing him slowly.

Mycroft is painfully aware that this entire spectacle is for his benefit.

"Yes, well, lovely as her grip is, I'm afraid you'll have to forego it,  _dear_ brother," he announces. Before anyone can stop him he marches over to the bedroom windows, pulls them wide open. Wan, milky light washes the room and a chorus of groans erupts. "Now be a dear," he tells the girl, "and take Kim and Shazz and whoever else you have under there-" at that moment, a deep man's voice growls, followed by a girlish giggle. Again, Mycroft rolls his eyes heavenward- "That you've just had a windfall and you're all going to get yourselves a nice English breakfast. And then evacuate the premises so I can have a little chat with Casanova here."

And he takes out three £50 notes and tosses them on the covers. The girl immediately picks all three of them up and, though she shoots Mycroft another pout, she sends a final, blown kiss to Sherlock. Sets about rousing her companions from bed, calling out more names than she initially mentioned and telling everyone they have to go. Mycroft watches, eyebrows raising themselves towards his widow's peak as three, then four, then  _five_ bodies drag themselves out of his brother's bed, pulling on clothes and muttering curses.

_Even the elder Holmes must allow that count is impressive, and he wasn't even_ _**present.** _

The final body, a thin, elfin boy with porcelain skin, dark hair and an Irish accent, tries to kiss Sherlock's cheek as he pulls his shirt on.

The younger Holmes shoots him in imperious look before telling him to, "fuck right off."

By this time the miniature orgy are good to go though. The girl who picked up the fifties walks over to Sherlock once she's dressed and, taking out an eyeliner pencil from her purse, w a number on his hand. Winking and then sashaying away, the swing of her hips designed to draw the eye of every (heterosexual) man in the room. As soon as she's out to door Sherlock snorts, rubs at the number, smudging it until it's illegible. He looks… He looks faintly nauseated. Not for the first time Mycroft wonders why he really plays these games: He certainly doesn't appear to enjoy them.

_A beat._

Mycroft stares at him as he did when they were children, then. Waiting for him to crack. Knowing he will.

He doesn't have long to hold out because within sixty seconds Sherlock's glaring at him.

"There now," he demands, "are you happy?"

And he pulls himself out of bed, naked as the day he was born. Reaches down and grabs a raggedy dressing gown from beside the bed, slipping it defiantly on. His body is covered in marks, bruises. The evidence of how far from safety his recreational activities have taken him.

Mycroft is tempted once more to call on the Almighty to grant him patience, but that, he knows, would be showing weakness.

"Sherlock, my dear," he says instead, "I am a Holmes. That means I am structurally incapable of being happy. I would have thought that you had realised that by now, your own DNA being so close to mine." At least the younger man snorts in amusement. "And that being the case, I'm afraid we're going to have to go on a trip. A long trip." He shoots his brother a pointed look. "She's been asking for you."

Sherlock's always been quick, it doesn't take him long to figure out where they might be going. There is only one "She," to the Holmes men, he knows that damn well. "No," he says, folding his arms across his chest.

His gaze has become shuttered, his body language angry.

"Yes," Mycroft retorts, picking up his umbrella and swinging it towards him, using it like a sword. A cudgel.  _If he has to beat him out the door, he will_. "It's been over a year, Sherlock," he says, "you're going to have to see her. The university sent out a letter when you dropped out, and some clot passed it on to her in the home. She wants to speak to you."

Sherlock's expression turns mulish. "Well, I don't want to speak to her," he snaps. "Not after the last time. And she said that she doesn't want to see me either, so the pair of you can get bent."

And he shows his brother his back, makes a production out of looking for his socks. Beneath the petulance Mycroft can see hurt, disappointment.  _He can imagine how that feels, it's why he's never revealed that his tastes run towards men._ She- Mummy- Her Royal Womanliness- rules her family with an iron fist and always has done.

Sherlock's flirtation with urban disaffection has simply given her a more perfect excuse than any previous to start interfering in her children's lives again.

But since Mummy won't give her elder son a moment's peace until she sees her younger one, Mycroft is just not willing to let this slide. And besides, deep down he thinks that if anyone can talk some sense into his baby brother, it's going to be the woman who gave birth to him. She was the only person who could control them when they were children, after all, and he hopes that's still the case. So he pulls out the ace in his sleeve, the one thing that never fails to get Sherlock into gear.

_He knows the boy will hate it, but all's fair in love and war._

"Come out," he says, "Or pay next month's rent on this place."

Sherlock turns and glares at him, his look furious. "You wouldn't dare."

Mycroft knows his smile is patronising. But even if he annoys his brother enough to get him to punch him, at least he'll know… At least he'll know the boy he remembers is still in there somewhere.

"I can," he says. "And I will. You just push me and see if I won't."

And he folds his arms, his expression disengaged. Peaceful.  _Infuriating._

He knows he's the image of Father when he does that, but he just doesn't give a damn.

Besides, it works: Sherlock starts getting dressed.

He even- wonder of wonders- deigns to shower before getting into the car waiting below.

But all the way to the clinic, he glares out the window. Brows drawn together. Thinking, Mycroft suspects. Brooding.  _Planning._ It takes family to know when a genius is up to something.

And the elder Holmes can't shake the feeling that soon his threats- and their mother's- will have no effect on Sherlock at all.


	3. The Target In The Shooting Gallery

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**THE TARGET IN THE SHOOTING GALLERY**

_Collyer Place, Peckham, London_

_January 13_ _th_ _, 2003_

_She is going to have to be very careful how she does this._

Agent #18-92- current assignation Anthea Martin- steps more deeply into the warehouse. A tiny flashlight in her right hand, her left hanging by her side, the better to reach for her collapsible baton should the need arise. Before her, picked out in leeching, yellow electronic light, she can see several piles of clothes which are probably people. Rough sleepers, by the looks of things, some of them no older than eight or nine. Some of them much, much older than that. Almost all of them sleeping the sort of coma-like slumber that is always the product of an addictive substance. As she watches the pile of clothes nearest to her shifts, a pair of almond-shaped brown eyes peering out at her. The child- she is certain it is a child- opens its mouth to say something but Anthea kneels down. Reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small bar of chocolate. Offers it.

"Would you like some?" she asks, and when the child frowns, obviously not understanding her, she repeats the question in Urdu, then Bengali.

Understanding her, the child smiles and nods. Reaches out its hand eagerly for the sweet. It occurs to Anthea that the little one can't have been living rough for very long if it's that trusting: such openness is rare amongst those who have been on the streets for more than a couple of months.

Not that she minds though, since it suits her purpose. The child grins and says "thank you," in Bengali. Anthea makes her smile warm, reassuring, and scoots down so that they are closer.  _It's the best way to build rapport._ "I'm glad you liked it," she tells the girl (this close she's almost certain it's female), "but would you like some more?"

Now the girl frowns, looks suspicious, though she nods.

Anthea, however, makes her smile even more coaxing.

"Well, my name's Lizzie, and I'm looking for a friend of mine," she says quietly- Doesn't do to awaken the adult the girl is sleeping beside.  _Or give away her current cover._ "His name is Sherlock, and he's this tall-" she puts her hand up as far as the can, indicating great height- "and this thin-" She brings her hands together to indicate someone incredibly skinny, and the little girl grins. "I really want to see him- I know his Mummy and his Daddy and they're really worried about him. Do you think you might know where he is?"

The child frowns, thinking, and Anthea holds her breath. Her boss, Mycroft Holmes, set her the task of finding his baby brother as a way of both testing her metal and her loyalty, of that she has no doubt. If she manages to track the errant young man down, her position with Mycroft will be assured, and the whole Adler affair forgotten. She might even find that her cachet goes up.

 _Fail_ to deliver the young man however and Anthea has no doubt that her next posting will be dangerous, overseas and, more than likely, lethal.

_The secret service is wonderfully reliable like that._

So she doesn't care whether Sherlock Holmes wants to be found or not, she's bloody finding him. If she tracked him as far as this place, based only on his known associates and their drug use, then she can track him to the ends of the earth.

The little one, however, has apparently come to a conclusion. " _I_ don't know where your friend is," she says. "But Uncle Iggy might." And she indicates a long, large pile of rags towards the back of the warehouse. "That's him there," she says.

Anthea doesn't like the notion of going any deeper into the building, let alone waking up a sleeping junkie, but needs must and all that. Besides, clever girl that she is, she's prepared to take some protection.  _A human shield, if you will_. "He looks awfully comfortable," she says doubtfully, biting her lip. "He might not like me waking him up…"

The girl shakes her head. "If you have a puzzle, Uncle Iggy will like you," she says. "He gets really bored, and the only things that make him happy are puzzles. I promise, he's… Well, he's not  _nice,_ but he's not mean like Faru over there."

And she indicates another lump of clothing, presumably the cretinous Faru.

Anthea allows her face to become more doubtful.

"I don't know," she says. "Could you introduce us?" And she takes out another chocolate bar, hands it to the child.

She only has two left, and she'll have to start on her stash of pills and syringes.

_Oh, joy._

Fortunately however, the child takes the bait: She whips it out of her hand. "Yes!" She says, and instantly she's on her feet, her (blanket? Sheet? Former sleeping bag?) wrapped around her shoulders and swaying as she pads down the length of the warehouse.

Anthea follows stealthily behind, her every sense stretched to check for danger.  _Give her an old-fashioned soldier of fortune any day_ , she thinks. You get into a fight with someone off their head on something, there's no telling what they'll do.

_And she'd really prefer not to shoot anyone else this week._

By the time she catches up, the little girl is quietly shaking Uncle Iggy. Anthea sees a flash of fair skin, long white hands, and then a narrowed, sharp pair of eyes appear from behind the wall of cloth in which Iggy has swathed himself. The man asks the child what's wrong in Bengali and she grins, holding out her chocolate bar and indicating Anthea. Telling him that she has a puzzle for him to sort out. At the mention of puzzles, Uncle Iggy's bright blue eyes flicker up to hers. They're slanted, startling in a white-and-blue/black smudge of a face. Anthea sees a long, lean profile, high cheekbones, a surprisingly full upper lip-

And then she's on her back, Uncle Iggy on top of her, one hand at her throat.

He hisses at the child to run, not to eat the chocolate. She takes off for the outside, tears in her eyes. "Poison," he snaps it twice, "it's poison, Mita-"

And then he starts choking Anthea.

Anthea has been called many things in her life, but unprofessional is not one of them. And since it would appear that she has found her target, she feels it would be discourteous not to point this out. So-

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" she manages to squeeze out through breath-starved lips.  _He looks surprisingly like his brother when murderous. `_

Wisely, however, she does not point that out.

"You're not welcome here," the younger man hisses back. "Tell my brother to stop following me-"

"Can't do that." Anthea can feel her vision starting to blur, the lack of oxygen getting to her. Heavy, he's too heavy, too tall for her smaller form to throw off, and besides, he wants to strangle her with a will that's fierce.  _Stupid Holmes_ , she thinks,  _getting the drop on me-_ Not that he's the first one to want it-  _He's just the first to succeed_ -

So she goes for her best, sharpest weapon immediately. She doesn't have much time left. "Your- your mother," she manages she puff out.

She might be overacting a little on the rasping voice, but theatrics of all descriptions are de rigeur with Holmes Snr. She doubts Baby Brother's any different.

"She- Dying. There's not much time- Mycroft sent me to, to fetch you-"

Sherlock laughs, this weird, manic, strangled thing that's absolutely mirthless. As he does it, his grip on her tightens, and for the first time Anthea feels a tiny prick of… apprehension. She's not interacting with him, she thinks, so much as whatever substance he's taken.  _And whatever he's taken isn't good._

"Mummy's fine," he barks out. "She's still in Pinewood Cloisters. Mycroft doesn't go to see her but I do-"

"Doesn't count though, if you don't go in," Anthea rasps out. "She wants you to go in, you know…"

"She doesn't."

"She does."

"No," he says. His tone has a note of finality. "No, she doesn't."

This odd, sorrowing look flickers over Sherlock's face and abruptly his hold on her throat disappears.

He launches back onto his haunches then, his massive, emaciated shoulders hunching over, his form rocking, head tucked in close to his chest. He's crossed his arms over his torso, wrapping them around himself: He looks, in that moment, like a very small child in a very tall man's body.

Anthea stares at him, unsure what to do.

She has, in her time with the service, dealt with a myriad of madmen and scoundrels. Forget James Bond, George Smiley is a far more accurate picture of the average spy. These are people who trust nothing, not other people, not themselves, and certainly not the rebellious, mutinous mutterings of a human heart. And yet, this young man, stoned or drunk or whatever he is, is nothing like that. This is a creature of feeling, of… desperation. Of blighted, gasping-for-breath life. Anthea had been prepared for Sherlock Holmes to be entirely like his brother. Cold. Mechanical. Brilliant, but oddly… hollow, for all that.

But the boy before her-  _and he is still very much a boy, not a man_ \- he is not hollow.

No, he's filled up far too much with life, with too much emotion, with the teeming possibilities of a terrifyingly sharp mind. He's… He's brim-full of living, from his toes to the crown of his head, and it is slowly killing him.

Mycroft had to know that before he sent her out to fetch him.

Just as he had to know that she cannot fix…  _this._

_A beat, wherein Anthea reviews her options._

"Look," she says after a moment. "Sorry about- Telling you about your mother was the quickest way to get you to comply."

Sherlock nods, a tiny, miniscule thing. "If she were gone, I would know," he says, and his tone brooks no disagreement.

Anthea nods. "Yes," she says. "I don't doubt you." For a moment she stares at him silently and then- "What do you want me to tell him? Since you're not coming in with me?"

Sherlock shoots her a sideways glance. He is suspicious, for all that she can still see that unnatural, artificial glassiness to his eyes. "You mean you're not going to drug me and put me in a burlap sack for Brother Dearest?"

Anthea shrugs. "For all I know you'll wake up before I get you halfway to Belgravia: Whatever's in your bloodstream, I'm guessing it's harder than anything I have to hand-"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "And there's the problem of not knowing how it will interact with my more… recreational substances..."

Anthea nods gravely. She'd rather he doesn't try to choke her again. "Indeed."

"Which means that you're not going to drug me" Sherlock finishes. "But please, Ms…" He gives her a moment to supply a name, but she shoots him an unimpressed look and he smiles a tiny bit. "Ms. Peckham," he says, and she nods benignly, "Are you seriously telling me my brother only sent you?" He flicks his head, indicating the road outside. "Be honest: How many of his boys are out there, armed to the teeth?"

"None. It's just me." She frowns, unsure whether apparent openness is the best policy. He may easily see through it.  _But sometimes one must think outside the box._ "This operation is not sanctioned," she says quietly. "I- My loyalty is to your brother, not my organisation. Finding you was a way to prove that."

"And not bringing me in?" he murmurs. "What will that prove?"

"That I have more discretion than he expected." Anthea shrugs again. "As I said, you'd be conscious before we got to Belgravia. There's no end to the mischief you could cause while you're there. I have a van and a driver waiting for you, but if you're conscious and you truly don't want to go…" She lets her voice trail off. Looks at the ground. "Honestly," she says, her voice as quiet as she can make it. "I think he just wants to know if you're alright."

Sherlock snorts. "Does he now?" he mutters, staring into space.

Anthea puts her hand on his. Since wholesomeness seems to work on him.

"Yes," she says gently. "Yes, he does."

And with that she reaches inside her coat, swings open her collapsible baton. Brings it down on Sherlock's skull in a ringing, painful blow before he can get out of the way. He collapses sideways and she gabs his hair, smacks his nose into the floor twice- blood, snot and tears being immeasurably helpful in blinding an opponent- before reaching inside her coat and grabbing a syringe. Digging it into his neck as sharply as she can, keeping her grip on him even as he hisses in pain. As he passes out she pushes the filthy rags he's in off his feet and drags him bodily to the door of the warehouse, relieved the rest of his neighbours have decided to feign sleep or disinterest- She sees little Mita peeking around the door of the building and throws her a last chocolate bar, muttering her thanks as she goes.

She's right though: By the time they make it to Belgravia, he's conscious. She comes out of their encounter with a broken collar-bone, multiple bruises and a black eye.

But Mycroft Holmes' gives her his thanks and trust, which is what she was after.

When they put Mireille Marie Holmes in the ground six months later though, she's quite surprised that Sherlock is nowhere to be found.


	4. The Oracle On The Park Bench

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**THE ORACLE ON THE PARK BENCH**

_Thames Barrier Park, London Docklands,_

_April 2006_

_I must need my head examined,_ Greg thinks.

_This Oracle bloke can't possible exist._

And he tugs nervously at his new coat- pure wool, heavy, his gift to himself for finally making DI- looking around as he does so. Noting the families, the joggers, the tentative, spring sunshine. Part of him still suspects that his older guvnor is having him on, that the person he's here to see can't be real.

After all, London is a city which gives birth to legends every day. Why, three months ago a meth' head in Camden called Micah Clark swore up and down that some shady, all-knowing ghoul named The Irishman was behind all of the drug-running, murder and prostitution in the city's northwest. Greg had given him the exact amount of credit that statement deserved, namely none. Clark was looking down the barrel of a ten year stretch for possession with intent to supply, and he'd been grasping at straws.

When he'd been unexpectedly let out on bail he'd committed suicide and nobody had been surprised.

But still, Greg thinks uneasily, if any city could produce an omniscient criminal mastermind, it would be London. A city as old as this has its fair share of demons, and guardian spirits, and he suspects that the person he's here to see today might just be one of the latter, a figment of his fellow coppers' imaginations. Since he's already here though...  _In for a penny, in for a pound_. Joe Bell wouldn't send his favourite sergeant on a fool's errand.

So Greg tightens his coat and looks around, searching as unobtrusively as possible for the person he's here to see.

It doesn't take him long to spot him: He's sitting on one of the park benches, staring out at the Thames. The joggers are giving him a wide bloody berth.

Greg approaches him slowly, not wanting to surprise him.  _He's heard stories about people who do that, and those stories never end well._ The man looks so skeletal you'd swear he was a corpse, his curly dark hair as tangled as a rats' nest, his blue eyes feverish and glassy. His hands are moving quickly, elegantly, across his left thigh, tracing patterns: The figures look, from what Greg can see, like guitar chords, though the posture of his hand is tighter, pressing more harshly down into his flesh. The man holds his head to the side- He appears to be humming. His right hand strokes through the air delicately, as if conducting some sort of invisible orchestra, though it too is held at an awkward angle, as if- As if he's holding an imaginary baton. Or a bow. He is pale. Skinny. Track-marks are clearly visible on his right arm, where his coat sleeve slouches down as he raises his hand.

But he's not bothering any of the families and he's not begging, which Greg assumes is why he hasn't been moved on by the uniforms.

The newly-minted Detective Inspector takes a deep breath, walks over to him, and plops himself down on the bench beside him.

Immediately the hand movements stop.

"Can I help you?" the man rumbles in a deep voice, his accent as sharp as cut glass, his eyes now open. No Camden meth' head, this one, Greg thinks. Public schoolboy all the way, you can hear it those crisp, clear consonants.

Lestrade opens his mouth and closes it again, at a loss what to say now that he's being addressed by the man the plain clothes officers call The Oracle. He suspects he should have thought this through some more. But then-

"I have a case I can't solve and I hear you can solve anything," he blurts.

 _Which is pretty much the entirety of what he knows about this bloke_.

The Oracle turns and looks at him, cocks an eyebrow.

"Tell me," he commands. "Don't be boring. If you're boring, I won't talk to you again." He looks at Greg's coat, spies the bulge in his left pocket. "And give me your bag of crisps, I'm hungry."

Greg fishes the crisps out. "Don't you even want to know what flavour they are?"

The Oracle shoots him a haughty, pitying look. "If they haven't been stolen from a skip or discarded in a bin, their taste is unimportant," he huffs in a tone which suggests he really shouldn't have to point this out to anyone.

Greg shrugs.  _Man's got a point_. "Fair enough," he says, handing the crisps over. "Knock yourself out."

"That's surprisingly difficult to do," The Oracle retorts. "Now speak."

And with that Greg explains the current bane of his existence, the diamond heist from The Dorchester. Massive diamond, massive cock-up, massive pain in Scotland Yard's arse. There was a power outage and the lights had come up just in time for the rent-a-cop security guards to see a black-clad youth of indeterminate gender (though more than likely male) hightailing it out of the conference room. The display case for the diamond-  _synthetic, but indistinguishable from its naturally-occurring brethren and therefore impossible to trace if broken up_ \- had been upturned, and the jewel had been taken.

Naturally the rent-a-cops had given chase.

But here's where it had gotten strange. The guards thought they had the thief cornered in a small store room on the ground floor, one with a stock-chute to the basement which was served by a dumb waiter. Having ascertained that the dumb-waiter was in place in the basement-  _there was a helpful, glowing button to this effect, apparently_ \- the guards headed to the bottom of the stock-chute, intent on capturing their plunderer. When they got to the bottom of the chute, however, no plunderer was in sight. No diamond was either. And the CCTV footage showed nobody entering or leaving the basement, which was, well, pretty bloody weird. Especially since they found a male waiter's uniform at the bottom of the stock-chute.

Enter the Met and a massive pain in Greg Lestrade's arse, what with this being his first major case and all.

_It doesn't often happen, but at times like this, Greg finds himself wondering whether he's cut out to be a copper._

Not that he should be thinking like that right now. Because The Oracle turns and stares at him, slanted, brilliant blue eyes calm and measuring, and under their scrutiny he has to fight the urge to squirm.

"Did the security guards open the dumb-waiter doors and check the cage was in the basement before they left it?" The Oracle asks, his voice dry.

He looks- He looks like he's quite amused by all this.

Greg can feel his own defensiveness coming to the fore, and he has to fight it down.

 _Getting snotty,_ he tells himself,  _is neither big nor clever._

"No," he says. "But the button indicated-"

"How big is the dumb-waiter's cage?" The Oracle speaks over him.

Greg frowns, pulls out his mobile phone and flicks it open. Another present on his promotion, this time from the Mrs.  _This one is a little more practical though_. He calls up the photo he took of the dumb-waiter, grinning at the picture quality. _  
_

"Here," he says, handing it to the other man. The state he's in, Greg has no doubt he can outrun him if he tries to nick it. "Check it out for yourself. That's what the dumb-waiter looks like."

"I see," his companion retorts. "The use of the 10 pence piece to show perspective is helpful. Thank you." The Oracle stares at the photo for another moment and then abruptly hands the phone back to Greg. It is now covered in his greasy, crisp-laden finger-prints. He closes his eyes again, moves his hand back to his left thigh, the crisp packet abandoned on the bench to his right. Lifts his right hand and begins those strange, conductor-like motions again.

Greg stares at him for a moment, waiting for him to speak, but he doesn't.

The DI is starting to feel very foolish indeed.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" he snaps, when the silence has stretched to epically uncomfortable proportions.

The Oracle doesn't look at him. "Why should I?" He asks. His eyes are still closed. "You're a reasonably clever, if mundane, man. The clues are all there in the evidence you already have."

Greg fights the urge to growl.  _Again, snottiness: not big and not clever._ "If I knew what the answer was, would I be here?" he bites out.

The Oracle stops. Opens his eyes, looks at him. For a moment his gaze seems to clear a little. Maybe whatever he's on, he's starting to sober up, Greg thinks.

_He'd certainly like to think he is._

The Oracle sighs. "Check the inside of the dumb-waiter's cage for finger-prints," he says in a bored voice. "The door in particular. After the guards left, she would have had to force it open from the inside." He sniffs. "Can't have been easy."

"She?" Greg asks. "How do you know our robber's a she? And how do you think she'd fit inside that cage? It can't be more than 22 inches wide or deep."

The Oracle shoots him the sort of look an impatient mother bestows on a particularly idiotic child. "We know it's a she, because a set of male clothes were left at the bottom of the chute," he says tartly. "Such an obvious ploy to throw you off the scent is textbook. In addition, it is far more likely that a female than a male would be able to fit inside the dumb-waiter's cage-"

"It's tiny!" Greg protests.

The Oracle shoots him another idiot child look. "Yes, which means your thief isn't tall. Nor are they stocky. What they would have to be is double jointed. I'd look into anyone trained as a contortionist, see whether your robbery matches any others. Start in Eastern Europe and China, see if you can match any of the robberies to the movements of circuses or carnivals. Oh, and see if any female workers were hired recently: either she knew the button on the dumb-waiter was broken or she sabotaged it to mislead the police." He shrugs. "I told you, the evidence is already there. You see, but you do not observe."

And with that he goes back to conducting his silent orchestra, those long white fingers sketching chords on his thigh.

Greg blinks, surprised. Knows that he's being dismissed. Knows also that The Oracle has possibly just solved his case for him. It's... It's both annoying and brilliant.

_Wow._

"If this pans out," he says, "What sort of crisps would you like me to bring you next time?"

For a moment the icy blue eyes flash open again, and Greg spies a smile that's surprisingly impish. It makes... It makes The Oracle look rather young.

"If this works out, you're buying me dinner," the other man announces. "And I want a week's supply of crisps. Walkers. Unsalted. This is not negotiable."

Despite himself, Greg smiles. "Deal," he says, offering his hand, but the other man is already off again, lost inside his music. Lost inside his head.

Lestrade leaves him to it.

* * *

He doesn't see the black car watching him, a beautiful young woman at the wheel.

Just as he doesn't see the bowler-hatted man in the backseat, staring at him in narrow-eyed contemplation. "Anthea," the man says. "I believe we may have a new person of interest: Make the arrangements."


End file.
